


Cycle of Disaster

by 27dragons



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fandom Bicycle, M/M, Minor Injuries, hazards of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even when they haven't been in a fight lately, Clint always seems to be injured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cycle of Disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sara_holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/gifts).



> I said to Sara, "any requests?" and she said to me, "Steve/Clint. Nat/Clint. Bucky/Clint. ...Clint is rapidly becoming my shipping bike."
> 
> So this is Sara's Christmas fic from me. Clint Barton: Avengers disaster bicycle.
> 
> (Translated into [Chinese](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-148030-1-1.html) by user [kait](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kait) \-- see comment thread for login information. Thank you, kait!)

Clint came into the kitchen wearing pajama pants and not much else, unless you counted the bandage still wrapped around his upper arm from the skirmish they'd been in last week.

Tony, sitting at the kitchen table with a tablet and the remains of his breakfast, didn't count the bandage -- he still had butterfly tape and a fading green-and-yellow bruise on his face from the same fight -- but he didn't mind Clint's lack of dress, either. The team was nothing if not casual in the common areas that were exclusive to the Avengers and their particular guests, and anyway, Clint was pretty easy on the eyes. Seriously, Tony thought, it was like there was some rule that superheroes had to be ridiculously attractive. Maybe he should put JARVIS on it, create a spreadsheet or something.

Clint beelined for the coffee.

"Use a mug," Tony said automatically, because he had learned early on that if not reminded to use a mug, Clint would drink straight out of the pot, and then Tony would have to find another pot and wait for a fresh brew before he could have his second (or third, or seventh) cup.

Clint grunted and reached up into the cabinet over the coffee pot for a mug, exposing fresh bruises on his ribs and what looked like a bite mark on the underside of his arm.

"What the hell happened to you?" Tony demanded.

"Hn?" Clint looked over at Tony, then traced Tony's gaze back to himself, and then smirked. He poured coffee into the mug, gulped down a couple of swallows, and finally managed to articulate, "Tash."

Well, speaking of ridiculously attractive superheroes. That was a mental image Tony could enjoy, for sure. He'd been wondering about Clint and Natasha ever since-- "Wait, you guys are actually together?" He held out his own mug, and Clint obligingly refilled it before setting the pot back on the hot plate. "I thought you were just messing with our heads."

Clint shrugged elaborately and rubbed his hand over his head, making his hair stand up straight. Even that looked good on him. Seriously, Tony was going to have JARVIS start a database. "Not really together," Clint said, dropping into the chair across from Tony. "We tried that, but it didn't work out. Now it's just once in a while."

That derailed all of Tony's other thoughts, which was quite the accomplishment for anyone still on their first cup of coffee. Tony cocked his head and studied Clint for a long moment. "You are friends-with-benefits with the Black Widow," he said flatly.

Clint hummed agreement and took another gulp from his mug.

"You are either the bravest man I know, or you're fucking with me," Tony accused, because he had _seen_ the damage that Natasha could do with just her thighs.

"Why?" Clint said innocently, reaching for Tony's long-forgotten bagel. "Did you want me to fuck you?"

"That's not what I said."

Clint grinned and deliberately met Tony's eyes as he licked cream cheese off his thumb.

 

***

 

Clint pushed through the door into Bruce's lab and collapsed into the chair by the first aid station. "When you get a chance, doc," he said. His voice was rough and low.

Bruce looked up from his microscope immediately. "Was there a call? Did I miss it?" Clint didn't seem to be bleeding out or anything especially urgent, so he jotted down a last observation and crossed to the sink to wash his hands.

Clint shook his head. "Nah, we'd've made sure you checked in, at least, if there was a call. This was just my own stupidity."

Bruce shook off the excess water and reached for a towel. "Well, let's have a look."

Clint stood up and hesitated. Then, with one swift motion, unfastened his baggy jeans and shoved them down to his knees.

Clint wasn't wearing underwear, but between being the de facto team doctor and his tendency to wake up from a Hulk episode naked, Bruce had all but lost his sense of modesty anyway. Besides, he was distracted from the sight of Clint's admittedly impressive package by the vivid red welt running up nearly the full length of Clint's inner thigh.

"Good lord. What on earth did you do to yourself, Clint?" Bruce shoved his glasses up and crouched down for a closer look. It looked terrifically painful. Bruce had caught his hand in a car door once when he was young, and this had that same angry, pinched look.

"Erm." Bruce glanced up and was startled to see Clint was… not quite _blushing_ , but certainly looking a bit sheepish. "It turns out the plates on the Iron Man armor shift and recalibrate more than I was expecting."

Bruce blinked. "Tony let you try out the armor? But the interior is--"

"No..." Clint sighed and rocked his head back against the wall. "We were screwing."

Bruce snorted. "You and Tony screw around all the-- Wait. Did you mean--?"

"Yeah," Clint said.

"In the armor?"

"It was his idea!"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and hoped he wasn't about to get a headache. "Why am I not surprised by _that_?"

"Well, I might have actually suggested it first," Clint admitted, "but I was joking! Mostly."

"Mm." Bruce reached for a cotton swab and the alcohol. The skin didn't seem to be broken, so there wasn't much he could do aside from clean it and put a bandage over it to reduce the chafing while it healed. "You realize you _can_ actually say no to Tony when he gets one of his crazy notions, right?"

"Yeah, but by then it was starting to sound like it might be fun."

Bruce slanted a look up into Clint's face. Clint smiled, and Bruce was suddenly very aware of the fact that his face was nearly in Clint's lap.

"What can I say?" Clint said, still smiling. "I like playing with dangerous things."

 

***

 

Thor paused on the threshold of the common room. Clint was lying on the sofa in the common meeting room with a bag of frozen vegetables on his face. Thor craned his head, but saw no clues to suggest the cause of Clint's injury. Usually, this sort of behavior was accompanied by wreckage, or at least other Avengers likewise damaged in the aftermath of some glorious battle.

"What has transpired?" Thor asked, eyes narrowing. "What foe has dared injure you?"

Clint startled at Thor's voice, then struggled to sit up while still holding his makeshift cold pack over his eye. "No, hey, it's cool, big guy. No foes here."

"Then what has befallen you? Would you not be better served by seeking out proper medical attention? Bruce surely has--"

"Nope," Clint interrupted briskly. "Bruce doesn't want to see me right now."

Thor frowned. "Why?"

"He's hiding. Feeling guilty." Clint peeled the bag from his face to reveal a bruise that covered near half his face, puffy and red and already darkening to purple. He touched the edges of the bruise gingerly, wincing and pulling away. "Damn, might have cracked my cheekbone a little," Clint muttered.

Thor's frown deepened. "Why would our friend have cause to feel guilt for your injury?"

"It wasn't really his fault," Clint said. "If anything, it was mine, but I didn't think he was--" He glanced up at Thor and offered a quirk of a grin that put Thor in mind of Fandral's japing. "Did you know that the Hulk will pop out if Bruce's heartrate goes too high, even if he isn't angry or in any kind of danger?"

Thor blinked in surprise. If the creature had indeed manifested in Clint's presence, then Clint was fortunate to have escaped with such minor damage. "I did not know that," Thor admitted. "But why would his heart quicken without the thrill of imminent battle?"

"Sex," Clint explained. He turned the cold bag over and eased it back onto his face. "He tried to explain and I wasn't paying close enough attention. Apparently, even vanilla sex with Bruce requires a safeword."

Some words didn't translate well, even with AllSpeak, but Thor felt he understood the general meaning. "And so of course he takes the burden of shame upon himself."

"That's about the size of it. I'll talk him around later, but as long as my face looks like this, he's probably not going to listen to me, even if I've had worse."

"Mm." Thor understood well the impulse to accept responsibility for actions one did not entirely have control over. Maybe he would talk to Bruce later, himself. "I was unaware that you and the good doctor were in a relationship."

"Nope, nothing that complicated," Clint said. He leaned back into the cushions of the sofa and closed the eye that wasn’t hidden by the bag. "Just a friendly encounter. Or at least, it was supposed to be."

"Ah," Thor said, much enlightened. "I was unaware that was a practice much embraced here on Midgard."

"Some do, some don't," Clint said. "I do. Kind of life I have, it doesn't pay to hang around waiting on true love."

"So we believe on Asgard, as well."

Clint's eye opened again, and looked at Thor measuringly. Thor smiled.

 

***

 

Steve barely saw the arrow coming in time to dodge, managing to dive out of the way with only a hairsbreadth to spare. He threw the shield as he somersaulted back to his feet, then jumped to catch it on the rebound after it had knocked Clint out of his perch at the top of the gym.

Clint recovered his balance as he fell with his usual grace, tucking into a roll as he hit the mat, the hand holding the bow out to the side--

Clint yelped in pain and flinched violently before flopping onto his side. Steve checked the charge he'd started, pulling up by Clint's shoulders. "Clint? You okay?"

"Sorry, Cap. Got a bit of a burn the other day; guess it's not as healed as I thought it was." His empty hand was curled protectively around his side.

"Burn? From what?" Steve dropped to one knee and pulled at the hem of Clint's shirt, wanting a closer look. "You didn't report anything."

"Nothing to report. No baddies." Clint kept his hand over his side, preventing Steve from pulling the shirt up high enough to see the damage. "Just a little recreational mishap, is all."

"Clint, I need to know if you're injured even if there aren't any bad guys to report," Steve said patiently. "If you're not at the top of your game, I need to know _before_ the bad guys hit so I can deploy you more carefully. What would you have done if this had been a real fight instead of practice, just now?" He tugged more firmly at Clint's shirt.

Clint resisted a moment longer, then capitulated with a sigh, dropping his hand so Steve could bare his ribs. "I'd've stuck myself with a dose of lidocaine while I was suiting up. I keep a couple of syringes in my kit, and it's just surface damage, really, nothing particularly dangerous."

Steve stared at Clint's skin, disturbed. He'd been prepared for a red patch, maybe a streak of a blister or some peeling skin, like the time Clint had tried to brace a pan of brownies fresh from the oven against his side. But instead, there was a network of lines branching from a central point, like a spray of frost on glass but angry red instead of icy white. "What the hell, Clint?"

Clint craned his neck to look at it. "Pretty cool looking, huh? I wonder if it'll leave a scar. That'd be something to show off when I'm trying to--"

"Clint, what did this?"

"What? Oh. Thor got a little carried away."

"This is lightning? From _Thor_?" Steve traced the branches of the welts back to the center, and tried to imagine why Thor would put his hand just _there_.

"Yeah. It's not a big deal, really! He apologized, and it doesn't even really hurt anymore unless I rub up against it like I did just now."

Steve let go of Clint's shirt and rocked back on his heels, eyeing Clint speculatively. "That placement... you weren't sparring, were you?"

"Nope." Clint grinned and rolled onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head without bothering to straighten his shirt first.

Steve rolled his eyes. "I thought you and Nat had some sort of... arrangement."

"We do. It's hardly exclusive, though, and-- look, Tash's fast and flexible and she can beat me three falls out of five, but she's not nearly strong enough to hold me down, and sometimes, that's what I want."

Steve traced a fingertip lightly around the edge of the burn that was still visible, not quite touching the tender red patches, watching Clint's skin twitch involuntarily when he strayed too close. "Next time you want that," Steve said finally, "maybe ask one of us who _isn't_ likely to give you an electrical burn by accident, hm?"

 

***

 

Bucky stopped when he got to the edge of the sidewalk and looked back. Jesus, Clint was still twenty feet behind. "Barton, you promised me explosions. Get your ass in gear."

"I'm coming, already. The movie is not going to start without us." Clint didn't move one iota faster than he had been, coddling his strained back muscles.

"If you keep shuffling along like an old man, it might."

"We have plenty of time, the movie theater is only two blocks away."

"Don't forget popcorn. You promised me explosions and popcorn."

"With extra butter, yes. I pay my debts, Barnes; you won that bet fair and square."

Clint had finally caught up, so Bucky smacked the Walk button on the traffic pole. "We're gonna miss the previews if you don't pick it up."

"They're _previews_ , who _cares_? And those buttons are bullshit; they don't do anything."

Bucky pulled a small remote from his pocket. "This one does, though. Tony made it for me."

"Tony made you a crosswalk button that actually affects the lights?"

"Yep." Bucky looked around for the cops, then poked at the button. Immediately, the light in front of them turned yellow, and then red.

"How come you get the cool stuff?" Clint complained. He tried to grab for the remote, but Bucky pulled it away and strode out into the street. Clint followed. He had to pick up his pace a bit, and Bucky could hear him hissing with every step.

"Come on, lemme see," Clint complained. He reached again, lunged when Bucky lifted the remote up into the air, and then swallowed a curse as his injured back refused the maneuver.

Bucky slowed to meet Clint's pace, tucking the remote back into his pocket. "The hell did you do to your back, anyway?"

Clint's expression darkened. "Steve Rogers is a god damn troll."

Bucky grinned. "I could'a told you that, pal."

Clint glowered. "I used to be in the circus, Barnes. The _circus_. I wasn't going to put the acrobats out of work or anything, but I've got some tricks up my sleeve. I'm pretty flexible, is what I'm saying."

"Sure," Bucky agreed. That was true; he'd seen Clint manage some fairly impressive flips and twists in a fight. "So?"

"So apparently Steve is a fucking _contortionist_ who thinks it's funny to bend a guy into a pretzel just to see if he can, and then _leave_ him there the whole time he's pounding away--"

"Wait, wait." Bucky stopped walking and turned to face Clint. "Wait. You fucked Steve?"

"Well. Other way around, but yeah." Clint shrugged and kept walking.

Bucky stared, arrested by the mental image that conjured, until he finally had to run a few steps to catch up. "Are you shitting me?"

"Why would I lie about that?" Clint demanded. "I had sex with a nonagenarian, and _I'm_ the one who threw his back out. It's nothing to brag about."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "You had sex with _Captain America_ ; I'm pretty sure bragging rights are established."

"Nah, he'd get mad if I tried to brag on it, and then I'd never get to do it again."

Bucky smirked. "Hey, he's not the only nonagenarian super-soldier around, you know. And hey -- we're already on a date," he added, just to hear Clint say--

"It's not a date!"

 

***

 

Natasha looked up from her book as Clint came through the door. "How was your date?"

"It wasn't a date," Clint protested automatically, but the corners of his lips curved upward briefly before he managed to school his face back into a neutral expression.

"Yeah, it was," Natasha said. She laid her bookmark against the page and set the book aside. "Come and tell me all about it."

Clint made his way across the room -- was he _limping_ , just slightly? -- and dropped next to her with a studied lack of grace. "It wasn't a date, and it was fine."

"It was absolutely a date, and tell me more." Natasha unfolded herself and leaned against Clint's side, folding her hands on his shoulder.

Clint curled his arm around her shoulders. "We ate greasy pizza and then went to a concert. I didn't even buy the tickets with him in mind. I only took Bucky to that concert because none of the rest of you heathens know what good music is."

Natasha smiled encouragingly. "You mean none of the rest of us will indulge your terrible taste in music? That's true. How you managed to get lucky after subjecting him to that, I have no idea."

Clint snickered. "Up all night to get-- _OW!_ " He rubbed his side where Natasha had pinched him. "Okay, okay, jeez. It still wasn't a date. Pizza and a concert is something that friends can do, you know."

"Yes, it is. But that is not what _you_ did."

"Tash!"

Natasha poked him in the spot she'd just pinched. "You went out for food and entertainment and then had bed-breaking sex so fantastic that you're still limping. It was a date. Now spill the details, Clint, come on."

"I'm not limping."

"Clint."

He slumped and sighed. "Yeah, okay, I'm limping."

"So?"

"The pizza was so terrible it was great. Pepperoni and sausage, but one of these days I'm going to convert him to Hawaiian. The concert was awesome. Gotta say, Buck's a good guy to have with you in the mosh pit."

"Country-pop concerts do not have mosh pits, Clint."

"How would you know? You never go with me."

Natasha felt a laugh welling up and tamped it down. "I could not care less about the concert, Clint. Tell me the _good parts_."

She felt more than heard Clint's laugh. "Okay, sit up, and I'll show you the best part."

Natasha sat back enough to raise her eyebrow at him dubiously. "Do I want to know what that means?"

Clint stood up. "If I offered to keep it to myself now, you'd kill me."

"I'd probably just maim you a little. You're useful to have around occasionally." Natasha smirked.

Clint returned it, then shoved down his sweatpants and boxers.

"What are you--" She cut herself off as he turned away from her. His right hip was decorated with a bruise the size of her hand.

No; it was the size of _Bucky's_ hand. Mesmerized, Natasha reached out and touched it, laying her own fingers gently against the clear marks of Bucky's fingers. "You're right; this _is_ good."

"So very good." Clint brushed his fingers through her hair.

She looked up at him just in time to catch the besotted grin on his face before he covered it up again. She squeezed a little, pressing into the bruise until he shivered. "Are you going to ask him out again?"

Clint's hand covered hers, and pressed harder. "I think so, yeah."

 


End file.
